


Stuck

by brozilla



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 10:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brozilla/pseuds/brozilla
Summary: found this in my filesunbeta'd, all that jazz(might continue)





	Stuck

(…)

“—and you’re never gonna feel that way again.” Tyler spits, gripping his phone harder. “What I gave you? No one’s gonna give you that shit. No one’s gonna do the things I did. Fuckin’ _no one_.” His hand slices through the air along the last word, half of his whiskey slouching out of the glass in the process. Some of it lands on his shoes, but Tyler doesn’t notice. He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall. When he talks again, his voice is different, lower, morphed into the sweet, raspy drawl that always got Jamie’s eyes flashing. “So, tell me.” He starts, faux-casual. “Does she have my patience, baby? Does she let you stay between her legs for hours, stretching and stretching until you make her cry? Huh? Does she let you make her cry, Jamie? Does she let you flip her over when you’re done, finger her when she’s still tender, her legs are still shaking and she can’t fucking bear it but for you she tries—” His  breath runs out, and Tyler coughs out something that sounds dangerously close to a sob. There’s water in his eyes. He blinks, and water runs down his cheeks, too. _Fuck_. He takes another swig of his whiskey, trying to recollect himself. “I don’t care anymore, man. I’m fucking tired of this shit. You weren’t even—” Tyler laughs, sniffs. “You weren’t even that good. _I_ made you good.”

Silence. Nothing but an empty room, and the echoes of bass-boosted music pumping two floors below. Tyler should be down there. He doesn’t even remember what made him come up here in the first place. He remembers Melissa giving him a glass of whiskey, the careful way she told him to ‘go easy’ _,_ maybe because she could tell he’s been in a mood since he landed in Vegas.

“I’m at the Blacker’s.” Tyler quips, suddenly reminded of the phone in his hand. “Listen.” He holds his phone in front of him for some seconds, then puts it back against his ear, smiling slightly. “Yeah, you’d fucking hate it.” He swallows. Words are starting to elude him. He doesn’t know what to say. This entire fucking voicemail was a mistake, but Tyler wasn’t lying when he said he doesn’t care anymore. “Okay. Okay, I’ll— _Jesus_ , I’m drunk, okay? Don’t get in your shit about this. I know you will, but like, just don’t. I’m horny. I was dancing with this girl. I could feel her pussy through her skirt, Jamie. I don’t even know why I left, like. For what? To fuckin’ embarrass myself? When I could be hitting that bitch from behind. Maybe here, exactly where I am.” He opens his eyes, looks around at the room. The window lets in just enough light for him to see a bed and an armchair. It’s a guest room. No pictures, no clothes.

The phone buzzes against his ear. Low-battery. Tyler laughs again. He drinks the rest of his whiskey and lets the glass fall on the carpeted floor with a thud. His stomach hurts. His dick is hard. Everything feels clammy and tight. He grabs his hard-on, and doesn’t even think to stifle the moan that rasps out of his throat. Who gives a shit? “Yeah, _fuck_ , just like you used to do me, baby.” He mumbles, dragging his thumb along the length of his dick. His ass lifts of the wall on instinct, and he spreads his knees open, stroking himself through his jeans. “I could fuckin’—I could come right now. I could do it. Make you listen. You wouldn’t hang up, right, baby? You’d listen to every little sound I made.” He thrusts up into his hand and groans. “God. I haven’t even touched my dick, you know? I’m gonna come in my pants. Just by thinking about you. God, I can’t fucking stop thinking about you, Jamie.” His movements falter. “I—I’m— _fuck_.” He stops, frozen in place, suddenly aware of what he said, what he’s _doing,_ alone, in the guest room of his friends’ house, on the phone with the voicemail of someone who doesn’t care. (Or maybe does care, but shouldn’t, anyway.) Tyler inhales, exhales, willing away the familiar pressure behind his eyelids. His pulse is thrumming like a drum against his ears. He relaxes his body, slowly, his hips, his thighs. He’s still hard, but he can’t touch himself anymore. He drags his hand across his face, instead.

“I’m stuck.” Tyler finally says, and hangs up.

(…)

**Author's Note:**

> found this in my files  
> unbeta'd, all that jazz  
> (might continue)


End file.
